


No Good Deed

by eloquated



Series: Holmes, Mycroft Holmes [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Evil organization, General spy business, M/M, More spy tropes!, genre typical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:53:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27745522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquated/pseuds/eloquated
Summary: What in God's name was an officer of the Met doing at the bottom of the Aegean tied to a rocket?( Or, Why Greg shouldn't have touched that rat in Hyde Park. )
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Holmes, Mycroft Holmes [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2007778
Comments: 16
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone, and welcome back for a little more spy!Mycroft!
> 
> This was originally supposed to be a short one, but it got a bit out of hand-- so now it's in two parts and the conclusion should be up tomorrow or the next day. So fear not, it won't be a long wait!

It was a silly thing to notice, Greg knew that. 

In London, rats were practically everywhere, if you knew where to look. And often, even if you didn't. They were the descendants of the infamous plague rats, possible carriers of all sorts of unpleasant diseases-- and so people gave them a wide berth.

London rats were more than capable of taking care of themselves, which meant a dead rat was something wise people avoided at all costs. You just didn't want a part of whatever had killed it.

Just in case. A bit of sensible precaution.

The grey rat beside the green garbage bin in Hyde Park had been there for two days. That in itself wasn't strange, and Greg wouldn't have paid it any mind; only it was the fourth such rat that had died in exactly that same spot in the last month. Regular as clockwork they were discarded there, just out of sight of the casual passerby. In fact, if Greg didn't take this route to and from work every day, he doubted he would have noticed it, either.

But he did. Just by accident. And once he'd noticed, it was very hard to un-notice. After all, he was the newest member of the London Met, and it was his job to keep an eye out for strange things. Even on his daily commute across the park.

The first was disgusting. The second was strange. By the third he was growing suspicious, and by the time by fourth had been left, Greg decided to do something about it.

So he poked it with the toe of his shoe. 

And it rattled.

Leaning down, Greg took a closer look at the upturned rat, a furrow forming between his brows. Rats made all manner of noises, but they didn't rattle like keys, or small coins, and they most definitely didn't have a mostly-concealed seam of velcro along the bottom. Whatever this thing was, it clearly hadn't been left there by accident.

"Damn..." Greg muttered to himself, and tugged his gloves out of his jacket pocket before handling the thing. It was definitely a rat, a real one, but someone had clearly taken a lot of time and effort to taxidermy the thing, turning it into a sort of rodent coin pouch. 

Inside the rat was a quantity of British money, rolled up tightly and secured with an elastic. More than a thousand pounds, he guessed at first glance. But tucked beside it were several small vials of bright green liquid, all emblazoned with one word.

H.A.R.M.

Whatever this was, he thought, he needed to bring it to the proper authorities. People who knew how to deal with H.A.R.M, because it was well above a Constables' pay grade.

Unfortunately, halfway to the station, a gloved hand closed hard over Greg's shoulder from behind.

"Mr. Lestrade, what unfortunate timing... It's nothing personal, you understand. Just business. And you're currently in the way of ours."

Before he had the chance to reply, a cloth closed over Greg's nose and mouth.

And the world went black.

◈

"Mycroft Holmes, of Her Majesty's Secret Service... It's been a long time, hasn't it?"

"Not long enough, Dr. Allura." 

With an athletic twist, Mycroft tried to wrench himself free of the matched goons holding his arms. Unfortunately, both of them were pages from Dr. Allura's favourite playbook-- they were each a head taller than Mycroft, with arms broader than his waist. And between them, they had the leverage to suspend him several inches above the cold concrete floor.

Already his shoulders burned from the strain, and between his dangling weight and the pressure of the goon's thick, sausage-like fingers, his own hands were starting to tingle ominously.

"I'm not the one infiltrating your secret underwater base, Monsieur Holmes." Dr. Allura laughed. It was soft and musical, and the last thing that half a dozen MI6 agents had heard. "I'm going to start thinking that you missed me."

Mycroft tried to roll his shoulders, but whatever gym routine these hulking brutes used, it was working.

With a lurch, they started down the hallway after their mistress, all but dragging Mycroft's body between them. Everything was cement and deep set glass, looking out into the dark blue waters of the Aegean. Occasionally he could see flickers of sea life, but they were too far below the surface for much light to penetrate.

He had grim suspicions of how deep they might be, but he would have to deal with that problem later. Escaping Allura's lair would be impossible with his current arm candy, and getting rid of them was his first order of business. 

From his position, he watched Dr. Allura smooth her fingers over the length of his umbrella, testing the weight of it in her hands. "It's a lovely piece of kit, Mycroft. I'll be eager to see what secrets it holds."

"Do I want to know what you've done with the rest of the crew?" He asked, instead of indulging her, after taking a slow, deep breath to steady his voice. Holding a conversation while suspended from his shoulders was more difficult than it sounded, and he suspected that was precisely Allura's intention.

"I doubt it. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and none of them were as interesting as you are. You should consider hiring a better quality of lackey in the future. Unless you intended for them to be expendable?"

There was something soft and insinuating in her voice that made Mycroft want to clench his teeth. An impression only heightened when Allura stroked a sharp fingernail down the line of his cheek. "Nobody is expendable, whatever you may believe."

She smiled slowly, all red lips and white teeth, "Such a shame, mon chéri. We could have so much fun together if you were just willing to play along. Think of all the good you could do on our side."

Mycroft's gaze dropped pointedly to the sharp-edged brooch pinned to the lapel of her smartly tailored jacket. The emblem of H.A.R.M in glittering silver against the backdrop of wine red. As if he would ever lower himself to their ranks. "We've had this discussion before, Dr. Allura. And my loyalty remains-- always-- to Her Majesty."

" _Quel dommage_ , what a pity." With a flick of her pale hand, the goons stopped outside a solid metal door. A small sliding window at eye level showed the empty space inside, little more than a cold floor and a metal bench along one wall. "We'll speak again later, when you've had more time to consider my offer. Unless you want to try escaping from this cell, and swimming to the surface?"

"I don't fancy my chances of holding my breath that long."

The two goons grunted as they heaved Mycroft into the cell, the clang of the door making his ears ring.

"Until later, chéri. You will excuse me, I have a call with the United Nations that I simply can't miss."

◈

There was something disconcerting about knowing there were at least several hundred feet of sheer seawater over his head. Maybe more. And as the sound of Allura's footsteps vanished back the way she'd come, Mycroft tried to put that thought out of his mind.

Time to take stock. 

The goons had stripped him of his gun, his watch, and his umbrella (he'd owe E an apology for those later). 

He was deep underwater, with no immediate way back to the surface. Of course, there had to be some way for Allura and her men to come and go, which meant there was a route topside. He just had to find it.

And before that, he had to stop her from using the experimental mind-altering drug he knew she was in possession of. That incident in Thessaloniki had proven just how dangerous a substance it could be.

But how did she intend to deploy it from down here?

He'd have to figure that out, too.

It was a bad situation, but he'd been in worse. And Mycroft wasn't going to learn anything from inside his cell. 

Pressing his ear to the door to make sure there was nobody on the other side, Mycroft slipped the guard's key card from his pocket. It would teach them to leave his hands untied while they dragged him around like a sack of meat. 

It had been almost pitifully easy to slide the card from its owner, and he had to hope that goon had enough security clearance to open the door. 

Shucking off his jacket, Mycroft pulled the metal bench close to the cell door. It wasn't much leverage, but it was just enough for him to slide his arm out the small window, the key card pinched carefully between the tips of his index and middle fingers.

For a long, breathless moment, the edge of the door hard to his chest, Mycroft tried to catch the edge of the locking mechanism. It seemed almost impossible, his arms just weren't long enough-- and then?

With an electronic beep, the door vibrated faintly, and Mycroft heard the lock disengage.

Score one point for the good guys.

Mentally, Mycroft started his timer. There was no point trying to hide his escape from the cell, he didn't have anything like the supplies, or the time for that. Better to get in, and out, and the job done as quickly as possible.

Ideally while Dr. Allura was still occupied with her ransom call.

Head bowed, Mycroft hurried along the corridor, his gaze flicking from one side to the other. Most of the junctions had signs that were next to useless: corridor A5 led into B7, and then branched into A3 and C9. Without a map, he had nothing but instinct and good luck to guide him. That, and a mental schematic of the way he'd already come.

It was better than nothing.

[ LAUNCHING BAY ]

Well, that looked promising.

Mycroft flattened his back to the wall and crept forward, one foot shuffling along beside the other. Fortunately, the downside to having very large goons was that they weren't very quiet. He waited, still, as the hulking figure came around the corner, and with a vicious chop, Mycroft's folded hands came down on the back of his neck with a vaguely damp crunch.

The man made a low, choked sound, dropped to his knees, and toppled over on his side. "I don't envy you the headache you're going to have when you wake up." Mycroft said under his breath, and helped himself to the goon's gun, and the key card pinned to his breast pocket.

He'd expected a submarine launch site. 

Not a rocket.

The sleek silver outer casing stretched twenty feet in the air, glistening new and baring the H.A.R.M insignia in crisp black. It was an elegant piece of work, but Mycroft had no time to admire the artistry. 

One side of the room was dominated by a massive floor to ceiling wall of glass, looking out into the water, and onto the long tunnel that connected the main base to a small submarine. From his vantage point he could see the figures on the far side of the cavernous room loading tall ampoules of green liquid onto the rocket.

And the handsome man tied to one of the rocket support struts.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone really ought to deal with that rocket...

From the doorway, Mycroft had a good line of sight on the man. He was young, but greying at the temples. Maybe a year or two older than Mycroft, and wearing the distinctive, dark blue uniform of the London Metropolitan Police. 

What in God's name was an officer of the Met doing at the bottom of the Aegean tied to a rocket?

The unconscious guard's grey jacket was several sizes too big, but it was better than running across the open space in his white dress shirt and tie. Mycroft only hoped that the people on the other side of the room were too focused on their work to notice him.

It took a sheer force of will not to jog across the wide open space between the doorway and the rocket. Every fibre of Mycroft's body felt tense, adrenaline sparking brightly through his brain. But hurrying would only draw attention.

He felt the moment the man's gaze settled on him. 

_Shhh_... He mimed, one finger pressed to his mouth. The man looked doubtful-- not that Mycroft could blame him-- but he didn't cause a fuss.

"Who are you? And what're you doing here?" The man asked in a low, rushed voice as soon as Mycroft was close enough to hear. This close, he could make out the scuffs and stains on the officer's clothes, and the purpled bruise on his forehead where it looked like someone had struck him. 

He was handsome, in a rumpled sort of way.

Technically, Mycroft knew he shouldn't be playing the hero. He wasn't here to rescue wayward policemen.

But he'd never been very good at collecting, or ignoring, collateral damage.

"Mycroft Holmes. And I was thinking I really ought to do something about this rocket." He tilted his head, eyebrow raised, "And you are?"

The man sketched a tired smirk, and nodded towards his hands, bound over his head to the scaffolding. "Greg Lestrade, and I think one of us probably should, yeah. You're not working for that woman."

He said it like a fact, and Mycroft chanced a quick smile for his observational skills. "Certainly not. 'That woman' is Dr. Angelique Allura, and I'd be very interested in knowing how you found yourself on the wrong side of her plans."

With a precautionary glance around the side of the rocket, to make sure everyone else was occupied, Mycroft started untying the man's wrists. He was tall enough that he had to lean close to get enough leverage to pull on the ropes, the knots worked tight by Greg's previous attempts to escape.

"I found something I guess I shouldn't have. And I was on my way back to the Met when one of her men caught up to me. Next thing I know?" Greg looked rueful and gave a stilted, one-shouldered shrug, "I'm waking up here. Guess I wasn't her type."

"Probably a small mercy, her lovers have an unfortunate tendency to wind up dead, or worse."

"Worse?"

Mycroft met Greg's dark gaze, and he could feel the frisson of chemistry between them as their fingers curled together against the ropes. "You don't want to know. It's not a pleasant story."

In short order, he managed to free Greg from his bonds, leaving him rubbing his wrists to regain feeling in his fingers. 

Already he could see that their best chance of escape was in the submarine; just a quick jaunt to the surface, and then to landfall on any of the cities bordering the Aegean. From there, it wouldn't be difficult to reach the Embassy in Athens.

Simple.

If they could get to the submarine.

And passed the armed guards.

"Do you see that tunnel?" Mycroft asked, his body angled close to Greg's to shield them both with the rocket strut. 

Swallowing hard, Greg nodded. It was clear the strain of his imprisonment was wearing on him, and Mycroft had no way to accurately know how long he'd been there. But his hands were steady, and he was stable on his own two feet.

He'd seen agents in worse condition after less, and his estimation of the man rose a little higher.

"Right. If we stay close to the rocket, we should have some cover. Wear the jacket--" Mycroft shrugged it off and handed it over with a half smirk of his own, "And escort both of us across the room."

"Why me?"

"You'll fill the uniform better than I will, and several of her lackeys already know my face. Just think of it as an arrest." 

Greg pulled the jacket over his own, and nodded tensely, "Think I can manage that."

Mycroft chose not to dwell on the heat that pooled under his hand when Greg gripped his arm. The dull ache from being suspended between the goons earlier flared with an uncomfortable, grounding pain.

They were almost to the tunnel hatch when one of the guards realized something was wrong.

"You! Stop!"

Greg paled as a shot pinged off the metal side of the rocket, too close to their heads for comfort. "Well that's done it! What do we do now?!"

Drawing the hand gun he'd stolen from the unconscious guard, Mycroft pushed Greg behind the next support, and returned fire. There was a terrible gurgling sound from the cluster of men on the other side of the room, and Greg didn't look back. 

"When I say run. Run. Directly towards the hatch."

"Run? Are you bloody well--"

" _Run!_ "

And he did. 

The gunfire was deafening, and shots sparked off every sleek, metal surface as Greg and Mycroft made a dash for the hatch. Two more men stumbled and fell, a thick splatter of red on the wall behind them.

A third clutched his throat, blood spilling between his fingers. It was unfortunate, but the cost of doing business with an organization like H.A.R.M. 

And while Mycroft covered their escape, Greg swung open the round door of the hatch, the thick rubber seal giving way with a loud pop and a rush of air.

He didn't look out at the water. 

Better not to think about what was out there. Above them. All around them.

The sound of klaxons echoed through the door and along the tunnel as they raced to the submarine. Mycroft's heart beat hard and fast behind his ribs, and distantly he was aware that he should be more scared.

But he'd been through this a few times already, and the rush of adrenaline had become familiar.

"Do you know how to drive this thing?" Greg's voice pitched up as they barrelled into the sub, and Mycroft dropped into the pilot's seat. The panel was covered in an intricate array of buttons, dials and gauges, and lights flashed as soon as he dragged back on the large, red lever to the right side of his chair.

"You could critique my driving, Constable, or you could find the weapons system. I believe we still have a rocket inside that base that needs to be dealt with. If you would be so kind."

Greg muttered something about not finding the keys in the glove box, and Mycroft opted to ignore him.

The intercom system crackled to life as the sub pulled away from the moorings with a shriek of protesting steel from outside the door. 

' _I suppose this is point to you, mon chéri. You've saved the world, and the boy, you must be proud. But you must know we'll meet again... You've disrupted one experiment, not my greater plan.''_

Mycroft smirked and pulled back on the central column of the sub, just in time to watch Greg fire a torpedo straight through the elegant glass wall.

And into the rocket. 

The explosion rocked them violently, and he gripped the column, white knuckled, as they were thrown clear. The sea churned around them, white with frothy bubbles and the deep-sea glitter of millions of shards of broken glass.

For an endless moment they both held on for dear life, buffeted along to the sound of Allura's tinny, static-filled laugher.

"Of course, Dr. Allura... I still need to retrieve my umbrella."

◈

The earliest motes of lazy morning sunlight spilled through the hotel windows, warm on Greg's face as he stretched languorously. He could smell the salt off the ocean through the open window, carried in on the same breeze that cleared away the scent of sex and cigarette smoke from the night before.

It was positively decadent, and a world away from Greg's workaday life. The coffee here promised to be fresh, not burnt from the bottom of the overnight pot; and he could hear the waves, and the early morning birds, instead of the rattle of pipes in the ceiling of his ancient flat.

The only thing that would have made it better, he thought as he opened one eye, was his lover beside him, instead of sitting on the side of the bed to button his shirt.

"Leaving already?" He yawned, shoulders protesting as he curled onto his side. Apparently being strung up for... hours? Days? He hadn't asked the date, and wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know it. Either way, his body felt like he'd gone a few rounds in the ring with Goliath.

With a half smile, Mycroft leaned down to steal a kiss, their lips still warm with sleep, "I wish I could stay, but they want me in Maharashtra by this time tomorrow."

"Do I get to ask what Her Majesty wants you to do in India?" Greg propped himself on his elbow and toyed with the soft, damp curls at the nape of Mycroft's neck. In this light it was more red, the copper brightness brought out by the sunlight.

"Translations. Nothing particularly interesting, unless you find speaking Marathi, or the specifics of the textile trade, fascinating."

Greg didn't believe a word of it, not after seeing Mycroft in action the day before. But he doubted he was going to get a better answer; he had his suspicions that a 'better answer' might fall under Classified, and none of his damn business. Far above his pay grade.

What did a constable of the Met know about dealing with international terrorist organizations like H.A.R.M? 

"Guess that means I better haul my lazy arse out of bed, then."

Mycroft's fingers were cool as they caught Greg's wrist and turned it so he could see his watch, the hands ticking away valiantly, despite all it had been through. His expression flickered resignedly when he saw how late it was getting-- sliding back into bed seemed infinitely more tempting than catching his flight. But duty called. 

"Why don't you stay a few days? Consider it a vacation, courtesy of the British Government. It's the least we can do after all your help."

"That sounds like you're trying to keep me away from London. Should I be worried?"

The bed barely creaked as Mycroft shifted, the morning light hitting him from behind like the halo of the angel he certainly wasn't. "You accepted danger when you joined the force." He pointed out logically, his fingers finding the sloped angle of Greg's collarbone and tracing the faded pink marks from the night before. 

He had a few of his own, Greg thought with a low, simmering warmth. They were covered by the starched collar of his white dress shirt, but he knew they were there, and he still remembered how Mycroft's pulse had raced under his mouth.

"Big difference between a couple of teenagers with spray cans, and someone like that lady back there."

Mycroft chuckled, but nodded to concede the point, "You're in danger, yes. You have been since you found Allura's dead drop in the park."

"The rat?"

"Indeed, the rat. We'll do our best to keep you off their radar in future, however."

This time it was Greg's turn to laugh, the sound muffled when he dipped his head to kiss the inside of Mycroft's wrist, just below his loose, unbuttoned cuff. "Guess that means I won't see you again. Pity. This was fun."

Even suave secret agents could flush, apparently. 

"It was... But you're quite right, it's best we don't. Too much danger, for both of us."

And Greg had invited danger into his life, but not like this. At the end of the day, Greg Lestrade was a good man-- but more importantly, he was an honest one. It was written all over him, and Mycroft didn't need to be a genius to see it. He was good in a pinch, but this wasn't the life for him.

"I bet you say that to all the men you rescue from certain death."

Heaving a sigh, Greg sat up and stole a final kiss. It wasn't enough, and part of him wanted to pull Mycroft back into bed, to see just how rumpled he could be before he left for the airport. And India. Or wherever he was actually being taken. "I won't tell anyone about this. Don't need to get you in trouble with your people, and wind up at the bottom of the Thames." He hummed against his mouth, and felt the bemused quirk of Mycroft's mouth.

"I'd advise keeping it to yourself, yes. But if you did tell anyone, who would believe you?"

◈

Five years later, Greg Lestrade-- now on the verge of making Inspector, with a few new stripes on his sleeve-- sank deeper into the chair at the side of Sherlock Holmes' hospital bed, and waited for his family to arrive.

Not for the first time, he wondered how someone as clearly brilliant as Sherlock hadn't managed to avoid the pitfalls of university. He'd been high as a kite, weaving down the wet sidewalk towards Greg, muttering to himself about bees and aerofoils. At least, Greg thought that's what he'd been saying. It hadn't taken a rocket scientist to know he was under the influence of something; cocaine, he suspected, but didn't have the tox screen to confirm.

He'd run when he realized Greg wasn't his usual dealer.

Slipped.

And managed to knock himself unconscious when he'd careened headlong into a telephone pole. Which was precisely the reason they were here, instead of at the lockup where he belonged.

"You could let me go." Sherlock groused in annoyance, unable to furrow his brow properly because half of it was covered in a large sticking plaster.

"And have you running all over London, getting into trouble? I think not, mate. You're going to explain this to your brother, and then we'll see if he's willing to bail you out. If not, you can get to know the inside of a cell for a while."

"While a very tempting idea, officer, I believe my brother may have learned his lesson. You've been very good to keep an eye on him. Hello, brother mine."

"Mycroft."

The voice at the door was quiet and polished, and Greg's own words died in his throat when he looked up. There was no mistaking the dark, ginger hair, or the sleek lines of a suit that probably cost more than Greg's rent. It had been years, but you didn't forget a man like that.

Holmes.

In case of emergency, call : Holmes, M (brother).

Holmes, _Mycroft._

Of all the hospitals, and all the junkies, and all the families in the world, Greg thought vaguely, what were the odds?. 

Of all the people Sherlock would have run into, Mycroft mentally shook his head, it had to be him.

"Gregory... Though I suppose it's Sergeant Lestrade now, isn't it? It's a pleasure to see you again. And thank you for taking such good care of my wayward baby brother. Sherlock, are you going to thank the nice man for his help?"

Sherlock glared mutinously at his brother, and Greg had to bite his tongue to stifle a laugh. He could feel the quick pass of Mycroft's gaze over his body, a quick tug of remembered heat settling low in his belly.

He stole a glance of his own when Mycroft leaned over his brother's bedside to examine his forehead. Time had been kind to him, and he was still alive... Greg could admit to being a little surprised.

"I'll, ah... Give you both a moment. Get the paperwork sent over." Greg pushed himself up from the uncomfortable chair, and smoothed a hand futilely over his rumpled clothes. "It's good to see you again, Mycroft."

"Indeed... And thank you. We'll be out of your hair momentarily."

Their eyes met for half an instant before Greg left the room, thick with the shared agreement to keep this between themselves. He couldn't guess how much Mycroft's brother knew about his life, or his work, but he had a sneaking suspicion that it wasn't much.

And with Sherlock Holmes running amok in London, they both had the feeling they'd meet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg Lestrade, Bond girl!
> 
> And as always, stick around in the comments to chat about all things spy!Mycroft, or Mystrade! ❤️


End file.
